


Imitation

by alittlebriton



Category: Alias (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 15:39:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4485107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alittlebriton/pseuds/alittlebriton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sark has always given up the passion rather than the violence – he knows what his heart truly desires most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imitation

She holds herself like royalty, so different from Ally. While one used to slink up to him, making him mould himself around her body, Lauren stalks into his space, demanding his attention and desire. Which he freely gives, of course, but he lets her think she extracts it out of him. As if she’s won.

_And I like your perfume._

He approved of the way she didn’t back down, and the way she betrayed him. Done so elegantly, like the way she seduces to kill. My merciless angel, he thinks, watching her kill time and again. She favours the knife, he notices, as he does the garrotte. Close contact weapons, allowing you to feel the life ebb from another. They let you relish the kill. He finds it more passionate, a meaning of pleasure in death. He can see she finds it almost sexual, the panting and gasping, flailing of limbs as if in orgasm. Sark watches her, thinking the flush of pink on her cheek as she stabs the man over and over makes her more beautiful than ever. He has not yet touched her.

He soon finds the thrill of discovery turns her on. Her domineering manner extends to her sexuality, pushing him violently onto the bed and plundering his mouth. He doesn’t catch his breath for the next half hour, watching, thrilled, as she takes control of his body. Pushing it into her, biting his flesh, trying to devour him. Her breasts are thrust upwards as she urges him deeper, gripping his thighs with tight white hands. Her nails make tiny trails of blood run onto the sheets. Her muscles suck the orgasm out of him, fighting for dominance to the last. She collapses onto him, breath ragged, her voice hoarse from her screams.

_You’re so controlling  
_

He is gentle with her afterwards, but she doesn’t respond to that. So he gives in, letting her continue with the aggression. After a while, he comes to like it. He loves listening to her speak to her husband in loving tones while he is sliding his fingers inside of her, swirling his tongue around her clit. He marvels at the steadiness of her voice while working, only turning to cries of satisfaction when she hangs up the phone. He loves how she lies to her husband as she lies in his bed. Watching her glacial beauty in repose, letting her body calm before she goes back to her double life.

His life now falls into a pattern: the kill then the passion, the passion of the kill sliding easily between the sheets. He has never caused this much death even with Irina, not even with Sloane. He is pushing himself to the limits, he knows, and something will break. He will most likely betray her. Sark has always given up the passion rather than the violence – he knows what his heart truly desires most 

_Not if I see you first, love._

He knows the striking image they make, two high cheek-boned blondes all in black, Sigs held casually at their sides. He likes the familial image it invokes, the intakes of breath from others whenever they kiss. Twins of vengeance and destruction, the only family he has now. He feels his heart race when she tortures her husband, never feeling pity for the fool, looking instead at her parted lips, her cold eyes. After they leave the warehouse, he is the one to slam her up against the wall in the alley. He cuts off her cry of dismay with his mouth, pushing his tongue between her lips. She struggles, trying to kick him, but he has always been stronger than her. He just never let her know. He rips her trousers, parting her legs roughly while pinning her by the throat. Sark slows, pausing to nip gently at Lauren’s neck, feeling her body tremble. His gloved hand snakes its way across her jaw, covering her mouth, and her wide eyes look at him with fear. This time, they will do it his way.

His gaze holds her as he unzips himself, hard and ready for her. He pushes his way in to her roughly, and while she is wet, she is nowhere near as ready as she is when she’s on top. The friction causes him to close his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again she is looking at him with utter hatred. Sark smiles at this. He thrusts in to her again and again, grinding her pelvis into the bricks behind her, and watches as her pale skins blushes, rose rising up from her chest. He grabs her knee with his free hand and bends it upwards, allowing himself deeper into her, and her muffled whimpers escape the leather clamped over her lips.

“Sssh”, he whispers, “I’ll tell you when you can scream for me.” And he increases he pressure on her knee, bending it more forcefully. He is nearing the edge now, and by the feel of her body’s spasms, so is she. He releases her mouth, and grabs her bottom lip with his teeth, nipping it roughly. Pulling back, he mouths the command ‘scream’, and she complies as his gloved thumb sweeps over her clit. He spills himself into her with a final jerk of his pelvis, smacking her head against the wall which causes her body to shudder again with the aftershocks. She’s so good. Even violence when directed at her turns her on.

He turns away from her and pulls out his gun, caressing it rather than her. His soul is in its steel, not her heart, and she would do well to remember that.

_Woman was God’s second mistake._

He gave her up so easily, a little pressure here, another broken bone there. He knows he wants to kill her. At least then she won’t tell them what they found. At least now he is close to Bristow. Someone will pay for Irina’s death – if she is dead. He doubts that Bristow would be able to do it – he doesn’t doubt his will, just her submission. The Irina he knows never would allow such a thing to happen; therefore, it did not. Another double, like Ally? Perhaps. He has time to contemplate it in his familiar cell before Lauren is brought in.

The dramatic reveal loses something when all he can think about is that she’s alive. If she’s alive she can carry on, get him out. He will see her again. Beautiful majesty, garbed in black as if in mourning, sweeping through life while trailing death. He loves her as much as he can love. He recognises their similarity and is content to let it continue. No one else would understand.

You look nothing like her. You are more like her than you will ever admit.

 


End file.
